"Welcome to he stratosphere," I heard the plowman say.
"The thistle bushes moan and whine, but never get away.
The hardened soil arrogant of what my plow can bring
Is brought to retribution by the sharpness of its sting.
The ground cries out 'I've had enough! I'd rather turn to stone.'
But once again, the gardener has plans he leaves unknown.
The mixed up mess of rotting plants and stench of stale manure
May not seem much among the humbled land that must endure.
But when the harvest comes and brings the sweetness of it's fruit,
The ground cries out 'I told you so' and revels in its loot."
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